


A Lose/Win

by xbrokendollzx



Category: Extreme Championship Wrestling, Total Nonstop Action Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M, Swearing, mentions of cheating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 07:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10509438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xbrokendollzx/pseuds/xbrokendollzx
Summary: Self Sabotage ain't as easy as it used to be.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is some old nonsense. Credit for the lyrics used at the beginning goes to the Smashing Pumpkins.

“Way down deep within my heart  
Lies a soul that's torn apart  
Tell me, tell me what you’re after  
I just want to get there faster” -The Smashing Pumpkins “Siva.”

Scott didn’t exactly know what he had been expecting to come home to after the whole shit show of an ordeal-that he had been the orchestrator of, he had no problem with taking credit for yet another rare and good thing that he’d purposely destroyed-but it certainly hadn’t been this.  
A completely intact house. No Busted-out windows, no overturned couches, no accusatory and vulgar nicknames messily spray painted across his living room wall in bright red…

And from what he could see from where he was standing, there was a scruffy little bastard sitting on top of his kitchen table, sipping a Pepsi. Right where Scott had been planning to find the tear dampened note that listed all the reasons why he had been left alone to drink himself further into depression.  
Right in the exact spot where Scott had been banging that overly enthusiastic one off in the horrible leopard print skirt and matching panties, when said scruffy little bastard had walked right in on them. Scott hoped He wasn’t sitting in cum or anything. Sheila…Sherry…Selene? had squirted just about as much as she babbled.

Apparently, Punk had skipped the whole being “hurt” thing. Scott should have known better, honestly. That the bond that they had was nothing like the rest of those 2-4 month “situationships” he had found the most trivial reasons to wriggle out of.  
From the moment that Scott found himself looking forward to the “still alive old man?” text message that came every morning, washing and folding the stray t-shirt or two that Punk forgot at his apartment, and picking up Punk’s shitty health food whenever he went shopping so that he’d be able to feed the little bastard whenever he showed up, he knew something was very wrong.

Scott was so attached to the point where he gave Punk a key so that he’d be more tempted to visit him. He even went as far as to look for tickets to Hockey games and concerts going on in Chicago so that he’d have an excuse to be near Punk. Every time without fail, Punk would show up to the airport in one of his stupid little hats with the puff on top, asking him if he’d left his “walker at home” before he laid one on him.  
It was better this way, though. Punk would hate the fuck out of him, but he’d see that he dodged a bullet in the end. Then he could shack up with one of his little friends that had been waiting for Scott to die or something so they’d have their chance.  
Scott makes his way into the kitchen and immediately heads for the fridge, choosing to slide past the table first so that Punk would have an opportunity to take a swipe at him if he wanted. He deserved that much. 

But He found himself arriving at the fridge without receiving so much as a flip of the bird.

“Can I get you somethin’ a little stronger, Kid?” Scott throws over his shoulder in an attempt to piss Mr. ‘Straight edge means I’m holier than thou’ off, popping the fridge open to grab himself a beer. “Maybe a lil’ Gin and Pepsi…” Scott trails off and his hand hovers in the air, eyebrows narrowing in confusion. He could have sworn he’d stumbled in with that six-pack last night. Where was-

He pushes around some take out and juice cartons, tips some bottles. Nothing. Fuckin’ nothing.

“I don’t know, Old Man. Can you?” Punk replies calmly.

The pettiness in his tone registers with Scott immediately, and he whips around to find Punk watching him look for something that had probably been poured down the sink hours ago, chin propped up on his fist. 

Scott slams the fridge closed and goes over to the cabinet over the stove that he stored his good shit in, because He better not have-  
“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Scott hisses when he opens the cabinet and finds every single last bottle of Johnnie, Jack, and Tanqueray to be empty.

“That was the same thing I thought before I realized that this was a play out of your ‘woe is me’ handbook.” Punk unfurls his legs, swings them around the table, and hops down. “You wanted to come home and discover that I decided to bail on you so that you’d have an excuse to throw yourself another ‘I fucked up again because nobody ever loved me,’ pity party.”

Scott feels his temples starts to pound-something that could be easily remedied by washing down a Perc with some gin-but all his fucking alcohol was gone and he left the pills he’d scored earlier in his car.

And Punk was now leaning against the kitchen doorway, preventing him from leaving the house so that he could get to the pills in his car, so that he could get in his car and head back down to the liquor store.

And Scott would never lay a finger on Punk. Not even to move him. 

“Alright,” Scott rocks back on his heels, fingers twitching at his sides. Shit, he needed a boost. “I’ll bite. Want me to tell you that she didn’t mean anything to me? You want me to go out there, grab some cheap hallmark card and a bunch of flowers that you won’t give two shits about, and come back here with a bunch of fake excuses that I came up with on the ride back?”

Much to his irritation, Punk said nothing. 

“Then what?” Scott explodes, irritation fueled by the massive comedown headache that was forming. “Tell me what the fuck you want, cause I ain’t got shit to offer you but that.” Scott jabs a finger in the direction of the forgotten leopard print bra lying beneath the table. “Without fail, every motherfucking time!”

Punk takes a few steps forward until their noses are touching. “You proud of yourself for making that groundbreaking announcement?” He replies dryly. “Oh look! You did the world a favor by letting everyone what a piece of shit you are ahead of time, so they can all spare you the responsibility you’ll have to take when you actually do hurt someone.” He reaches out to pat Scott’s shoulder. “Cool. Gotcha.”

Scott scoffs and steps back, rips as his curls as he turns about in a half circle, and then starts to pace the floor. “Y’know...what is this, huh? Some kind of twisted attempt at an intervention? Fuck off.” He lets out a mirthless little laugh. “You’re an obnoxious little asshole-"

“You afraid to face what you did without booze and Oxy in your system, or did you not come up with some kind of plan B to fall back on when A failed?”

“Oh look, a door!” Scott gasps with mock enthusiasm. “Don’t quote me on this, but I heard that it can be used to get the fuck out of my house. Give it a whirl, lemme know how it works out for you.”

But of course, Punk doesn’t. He crosses the room to get himself another Pepsi.

Scott watches in amazement. Hadn’t Punk had enough? Wasn’t the shit that he put him through enough to make him understand that this was a toxic relationship that had the capability of being ‘detrimental to his emotional stability’ or some shit?

Instead of sticking with the initial “fast plan” that he’d hatched-to verbally assault Punk until he either got tired of it and socked him in the mouth, or realized that he wasn’t worth his time-Scott lets his eyes fall shut and leans back into the table with a tired groan. “Christ, Kid.”

Punk folds his arms over his chest with a little grin. He realizes that Scott had come prepared for this kind of fight. He wanted arguments, punches, something he knew how to deal with when he was feeling the frustration of a come down. 

“I got time today, Old Man.” 

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“What, no more creative insults?”

“If only you were worth my time and energy.”

“Is that how you say ‘I fucked up’ in miserable, attention-seeking bastard?”

“M’sorry, I’m havin’ a bit of a hard time understandin’ you. I don’t speak rude little asshole.”

“Well here’s your first lesson,” Punk smirks and steps into Scott’s way to prevent him from starting up his pacing again. “Hop in the shower, sober up, and get the fuck over yourself so we can go through that self-help packet your shrink gave you.” He tiptoes and kisses him. “That directly translates to-"

“-You ain’t goin’ anywhere.” Scott murmurs, reaching up to cup Punk’s cheeks as he leaned in for another. And shit, the drugs were nothing compared to this-wait, why was he moving? No. No, the wiggly little fucker was moving and he couldn’t get to his lips-

“C’mon,” Scott whines, tightening his grip on Punk’s face. “First you won’t stop runnin’ your mouth, and now you’re runnin’ hot and cold like that chick that rubs your dick under the bar table and laughs in your face when you ask for her number-"

Punk reaches back and pulls a roll of papers out of his back pocket-that goddamn booklet that Scott could have sworn that he trashed-and flips it open. “Alright, here we go. Delayed gratification can be used to treat addiction and avoid enabling behaviors-"

Scott narrows his eyes. Was this little shit using rehabilitation techniques on him? “No shit?” He drawls sarcastically.

Punk grins right back. “Page 34.”

“….” Scott turns on his heel, yanking his sweat and liquor soaked shirt up over his head. “…Don’t expect too much from me. I’ll do this again, y’know. As soon as you go to bed I’ll go right out and find myself a fix.”

And of course, of course Punk shrugs.

“Then we’ll just have to do this shit over and over again until you start expecting more from yourself.”


End file.
